Page 21 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

She grinned sweetly. “Aye, anything to see the MacDonald’s head upon my brother’s pike.”

He huffed an unexpected chuckle at her jest and lifted his eyes heavenward.

“It’s no’ as if I planned to be whisked away upon a handfast, James,” she added more seriously. “I wore what I had on.”

He dropped the tunic and shook his head but seemed to let his rebuttal go. “I thought ye were still asleep. Are ye well?” he asked.

She shrugged, a wash of forlornness blooming in her chest. She was alone. Without Peigi and without Seamus. Who sold his sister to the wolves.

“My forehead hurts, but I shall endure. Did I hit it?”

As if she’d given him purpose, he came to her, a slow progression, his gaze seized upon hers. Each step increased his height, until he loomed above her. She craned her neck back to look up at him and tried to stand, but he squatted down, his hand resting on her shoulder and urging her back down to her knees. His palms spanned her cheeks, and his thumbs parted the hair draped across her forehead. Once more, he lay the backs of his fingers against her brow as if to check for fever. Her skin tingled. For such a merciless warrior, his touch was, once again, surprisingly delicate, as was his demeanor.

“Aye, a wee bruise ye’ve got. I barely caught ye, but ye still landed hard.” His thumb caressed her cheeks, his gaze dropping to her lips with such intensity, it made butterflies flit through her belly again. His eyes dipped down her chemise as if an unconscious reflex, but they quickly bounced away. “I’ll, eh, fetch yer maids.”

He dropped his hands and stood, rummaging within his sporran. The draft through the shutters, though dampened by the tapestry, still filled the chamber with a chill, for the heat of the fire only radiated so far, and she dropped her hands from her throat to rub her arms.

“Aileana…”

Whatever he’d wished to say, he trailed off, such firmness overtaking his brow she wasn’t sure if he was angry or not. Her guard spiked high, prepared to defend herself.

But he bent for her hand, pulled it outward, and dropped a trinket into her palm. Reflexively, she clenched her fist, like a child trying to resist, and watched his back retreat to the door.

“Yuletide ceremony will abound today, considering yesterday was the first day of Christmastide,” he said gruffly, his voice strained and his broad shoulders tense as he gripped the latch. “If ye feel well enough, I wish ye to join me for an excursion, and to sit at my side this eve, to celebrate with us. It might ease my people’s confusion over ye.”

She opened her fist and looked down. Her breath caught.

“My earrings…” She inhaled deeply as trembling consumed her.

Still, he remained, his back to her and his hand on the door, as if unable to pull it back. Aileana dashed to him, embracing him so swiftly she could scarcely believe she’d done it. But to hold those precious relics again, when she’d been so certain they were lost forever, filled her with emotion. He tensed, his muscles twitching, and then he pivoted to face her, and his arms came around her, clenching her in return, holding her head to his chest and dipping his nose to her hair. It felt so blessedly good—his arms, strong; his smell of riding leathers; his soap; his unique male scent.

“They were a gift from my late mither,” she continued. “She had two pairs crafted. One for me. One for my sister.” Silence stretched between them, pregnant with uncertainly, though his grip tightened. “Mine were stolen the day yer men raided us. It was all I had left of her. And the day I sat before her grave and confessed to her that they were lost…’twas silly that doing such felt so monumental, but my mither was always a good listener, and it felt as if I’d finally lost everything.”

He seemed game to listen, his chest rising and falling in measured, steadfast breaths, so she continued as the sad memories locked in her heart fought to wedge a crack so they might leak out.

“Peigi always told me to wear my earrings and look the part of a lady, but I was too afraid to lose one. I was certain they’d be safer tucked in my trunks. My sister has always been the envy of many a woman. She’s had many suitors, but my brother lacks the promise of a dowry, which eventually sends the suitors away in search of richer prospects… These were part of our dowries, and without them, I have no prospects at all.”

He didn’t seem inclined to let go, but she pulled away, and he dropped his embrace, clearing his throat.

“I could be a pros—” He cut himself off but not before Aileana suspected the direction of his remark.

She didn’t consider James to be a realistic prospect…did she? And why did he want a permanent marriage? Surely he wasn’t so pious and moralistic.

His gaze, aimed over her head to stare at nothing on the opposite wall, didn’t drop to meet hers, and upon the lips he chewed, he seemed to stifle further rebuttal. She examined him in the firelight while the shadows played upon his tunic, the lacing loosened to reveal the muscle beneath, his features bronzed in the soft, dancing light upon his smooth face.

“My thanks for returning them.”

An inkling of guilt contorted his brow, and she might do well to continue fostering this peace between them instead of spitting at him like an adder. Perhaps not only could they form a truce over Christmastide, but she could work out some benefits for her clan, too. A twinkle lit his eyes, and his mouth curved up. Not a smile, but seeming amusement, and he dug beneath the cuff at his wrist. He dragged free a white cloth and shook it out, handing it to her.

She furrowed her brow. “A kerchief?” Like a favor an eligible lady would give to her favored knight at a tourney? A curious smile captured her lips. “Are ye bestowing yer maidenly favors upon me, James MacDonald?”

A husky laugh rumbled unexpectedly up his throat. “’Tis my white flag of truce, lass.” He made a concerted effort to inspect it for blemishes. “Eh, as ye can see, I’ve nay wiped my boots upon it.”

The jest induced a giggle. A giggle! What am I, an enamored lass? And yet his meaning was clear. He was committed to giving this friendship an honest try and not devolving into parries about whose fault what was. And something about his determination warmed her.

He dragged back the door with a grin and strode out. “My wife is awake,” he said to someone, followed by something inaudible, then, “See her dressed and ready for today’s outing.”

A moment later, two maidservants entered the chamber, followed by a small serving girl, bobbing in their curtsies, their arms bundled in masses of fabrics and baskets of supplies.